


Extracurricular Activities

by yourdykeinshiningarmor



Series: Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo Prompts [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Drunk Sherlock, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Coital Cuddling, Rair Pair Prompts, Rare Pairings, Smut, bored
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:18:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4179564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourdykeinshiningarmor/pseuds/yourdykeinshiningarmor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock contemplated how much he could consume before he would become intoxicated, before his mental faculties would be impaired enough to risk exposing the thing he kept hidden from Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extracurricular Activities

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the Rair Pair Prompt of 'bored.'

Sherlock was  _ bored _ ! John had left yesterday for some insufferable week-long medical conference in America  _ and _ he had the audacity to take a holiday for the week after! Why he needed to leave on Friday when the conference didn't start until Monday he also didn't understand.

“Two weeks!” Sherlock yelled at the skull on the mantle. “What am I to do without John! Who will make me tea or get me a pen? What if my mobile is across the room?” He sighed and sunk into his chair.

A knock at the door roused Sherlock momentarily from his sulk, but not enough to make him actually get up and answer it. There was another knock then the sound of a key in the lock. Sherlock quirked his head, wondering briefly who would knock first then let themselves into the flat anyways. As soon as he heard the confident and authoritative pounding of boots on the stairs he knew.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock said before the DI even made it to the top landing.

“Hey, mate,” he replied, not phased that Sherlock had identified him. He opened his mouth to continue but Sherlock beat him to it.

“John gave you a spare key… four, no six months ago, for emergencies. Before he left for America, he asked you to keep an eye on me, making sure I’m eating and bathing, keeping my mind occupied.” Sherlock nodded down to the brown files in Lestrade’s hands.

“Er, um,  yeah, he did.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Look, I know you can take care of yourself.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh.

“But I also know you’ve got a bit spoilt having John around and lord bloody knows that mind of yours needs stimulation even when John  _ is  _ around.”

Sherlock almost retorted back but decided silence was the better option.

“Don't worry, not going to breath down your neck or anything, just going to pop by and check on you every day or two.” He set the files on the table. “Best I’ve got on at the moment, I’m afraid.” 

The detective grunted his reply, now fully back to his sulk.

“Right then, see you around.”

Sherlock flopped himself over in his chair, ignoring Lestrade as he left the flat.

——————-

The first few days were tolerable, but by Tuesday, Sherlock grew more agitated with each passing hour. There was nothing on the website (well nothing above a three) or in John’s email (not that John’s angry messages or the constant changing of the password were stopping him from checking), Lestrade had been called in to court so had no cases for him, and even Donovan apologised that the criminal population of London was being so quiet. 

The only slight upside to it all was that Lestrade had decided to stop by the flat with dinner each night, he claimed, at John’s request to ensure he ate at least something once a day. The first time, Sherlock had just sulked, ignoring his dinner completely; the DI had no qualms about sitting in silence eating his own takeaway. By the third night, however, Sherlock was so desperate for food and interaction that he not only ate, but made room on the couch when Lestrade tapped his legs. They may eaten in silence still, but al least it was companionable this time.

When Lestrade came in on Friday night with some beer in addition to the takeway, Sherlock quirked his head.

“What?” Lestrade shrugged as he set everything down on the coffee table. “I fancied a pint and I doubt  _ you _ want to join  _ me _ at the pub.”

Sherlock lip lifted into a sneer. “No.”

“Right, so I brought the beer to me.” Lestrade reached down, grabbed a bottle, and twisted it open. He took a big pull before using it to gesture to the remaining bottles. “Have one if you want.”

Sherlock watched Lestrade stroll away into the kitchen to fetch plates and napkins for the pizza he’d brought. He glanced back at the bottles. He normally drank wine but wasn't opposed to beer; in fact, he was quite fond of some beer. The fact that Lestrade also liked the same beer wasn't a bonus, however. He contemplated how much he could consume before he would become intoxicated, before his mental faculties would be impaired enough to risk exposing the thing he kept hidden from Lestrade. Sherlock looked again to the five remaining bottles and decided that the risk was low and therefore acceptable. He was just opening his own bottle, when the DI returned.

Lestrade smiled as he handed Sherlock his plate and sat next to him on the couch. He lifted his own beer, clinking it against Sherlock’s. “To Friday!” he cheered and took another long pull.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but said nothing, taking a much smaller sip.

An hour later, they had finished the pizza and were halfway through an old action film Lestrade had found on the telly. Sherlock was most of the way done with his second beer and feeling pleasantly warm but still fully cognizant while Lestrade was staring sadly at his now empty fourth beer.

“Knew I should have bought two,” he said to the bottle.

“Could always pop down to Tesco.” Sherlock glanced over at Lestrade. He could see that the DI had a strong buzz going but he wasn't completely pissed yet.

“Don’t feel like it. Too far.” Greg frowned; he hadn't meant to sound like a petulant child.

“There’s a bottle of wine in the cabinet,” Sherlock offered.

Lestrade pulled a face.

“There is also a bottle of scotch, if you would rather.”

The DI’s face lit up with a small smile. “You don’t mind?”

“No, its Mycroft’s. Knicked it from the Diogenes a few weeks ago.” Sherlock returned a slightly evil grin at the DI.

“Well in that case.” Lestrade’s grin got even bigger as he stood and headed towards the kitchen. “Would want that git’s hospitality to go to waste!”

Sherlock giggled as he rolled the bottle around in his hands, listening to Lestrade rummaging through the cabinets. He let out a single laugh when the DI let out a triumphant yell upon finding the bottle. His smile faded, though, when Lestrade set down two tea cups on the table in front of him and flopped back down on the couch, their thighs now brushing together.

“Sorry, all I could find,” Greg said as gave each cup a healthy pour of the amber liquid. “To the weekend.” 

When Greg held the cup to him, he hesitated for a second.  _ This was not part of the plan _ . He was only supposed to consume a minimal amount of alcohol, enough to have an enjoyable evening but not enough to make a fool of himself.  _ Scotch would not aid in this objective; scotch would hinder this objective, would make this objective completely disappear only to be replaced with the one that is focusing on the minute contact of his and Lestrade’s thighs, the warm flesh separated from his by two thin layers of fabric _ ... 

Sherlock reached out and took the cup. “To the weekend.” He took a sip; surely one glass wouldn't hurt? He sipped again.

Lestrade drained his in one go and refilled it; leaning back against the couch, he took the second one a little slower. Neither one of them remarked on the new closeness of their positions; instead they sipped quietly from their cups as the telly flickered ahead of them, not that either one of them was paying attention to it. When he leaned forward to pour his fourth cup, he adjusted himself so his elbows were propped up on his knees. 

“Can I ask you something?” Lestrade finally ventured, not looking up from his cup.

The detective had shifted his focus to the silvering hair ahead of him. 

“Hmm,” Sherlock replied, not completely trusting his voice. His head was fuzzy and he was suddenly experiencing a bout of tachycardia.

“Are… are you and John, um…”

“NO!” Sherlock replied a little too quickly.

“Oh, right, sorry.” Lestrade fiddled with his cup. “Just sometimes, it seems like there is more going on between you two.”

Sherlock frowned. He knew he wasn’t the best at determining appropriate social cues at times. Now that he thought about it, some of their interactions  _ could  _ be construed as being a couple…

“John is a caretaker and I am far too busy to worry about many trivial matters. Though I do see your point.” Sherlock drained his cup and leaned forward to fill again for the second, no third? Was it his third or fourth glass?

Sherlock heard Lestrade hum an agreement next to him and turned to look in Greg’s direction. What he wasn't expecting was to have the DI  _ right there, _ to have Lestrade’s face mere inches away from his. He stared into the chocolate brown eyes and without even a second thought, Sherlock closed the distance, pressing their lips together.

There was a moment of pure bliss at feeling the warm, dry lips against his, before his alcohol-addled brain caught up with his transport’s movement. He stiffened then quickly pulled away and stood up, dropping his empty tea cup on the floor where it shattered. 

“I’m afraid I’m not feeling well, goodnight.” Sherlock fumbled over the coffee table (only knocking over a few books) and practically ran to his bedroom and slammed the door shut. He stalked over to the small window, hands frantically running through his curls. He’d made a right mess of everything now. His mind was going in seventeen different directions attempting to calculate the odds of each one when he heard a soft knock on the door.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade called through the closed door.

The detective stopped pacing but didn't move towards the door.

“Will you please let me in?”

He stared at the door knob, both hoping it would open on its own and wishing that he’d thought to lock it.

“Listen,” Lestrade started, “I’m not going to come in there unless you want me, just…”

Sherlock had completely frozen, waiting on his toes for the DI to finish. He heard a large sigh from the other side of the door.

“I just want you to know that… that it’s okay. Hell, its more than okay!” Lestrade let out a laugh. “You surprised me but it wasn't unwelcome.”

Sherlock heard what he assumed was Lestrade’s head head thump against his door. He realized he was now only a few steps away from the door. When had he moved closer?

“Fuck, Sherlock,” Lestrade said, his voice strangely amplified as it traveled through the door jamb. “Please say something… stay… go away… I want you… piss off…”

Sherlock frowned at the desperation he heard in Lestrade’s voice. It was a tone he rarely heard, usually only with the most frustrating of cases. There was a rustling on the other side of the door.

“Right, well, I guess I’ll be off, then.” The DI paused for a moment before adding, “hope you, er, feel better.”

Sherlock heard Lestrade’s retreating footsteps and felt a rush of panic course through him. He lunged for his door and threw it open.

“Wait!”

Lestrade stopped, already at the end of the hallway, and turned around. 

“I…” Sherlock started but didn't know what else to say. He didn't  _ do _ emotions, didn't know how to properly express them or act on them; when he did, he usually panicked and made a right mess of things, like he'd already done. He watched as Lestrade took all this in and strode back over to him.

Lestrade stopped right in front Sherlock, looking right into those stormy blue-gray eyes. He lifted a hand and cupped Sherlock’s cheek, smiling when Sherlock leaned into it.

“Come here,” the DI whispered and pulled him down into a soft kiss.

Sherlock stiffened at the contact but soon relaxed into it, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. He let his tongue dart out and flick against the DI’s lower lip. He wasn't expecting to have it captured between teeth and let out a strangled moan when it was. As the adrenaline in his bloodstream was replaced by endorphins he felt the warm fuzziness of the alcohol returning too. When Lestrade moved down his jaw and began nipping at the skin of his neck, he felt his knees go weak.

Lestrade giggled. “Shall we move this to the bed?”

“God, yes,” Sherlock groaned. He didn't even protest as the DI snaked his arms around the detective and guided him backwards. When the back of his knees hit the mattress, he felt himself begin to topple over. He grabbed hold of Lestrade and used his momentum to flip them around so the DI was beneath him once they landed on the mattress.

Lestrade let out an oof as he made contact. “Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock.”

The detective gave him a maniacal smile before leaning down to nibble at the skin of his neck. The DI moaned and squirmed below him; every acknowledgement of approval boosted Sherlock’s confidence that this was the right maneuver. Despite the common thought, Sherlock was far from inexperienced in this area, he just rarely felt the need to demonstrate his skills.

“I fear, Inspector,” Sherlock mumbled into the collar of Lestrade’s shirt, “that you are slightly overdressed.” His hand glided up the DI’s side and began to work open the buttons of his shirt. On each piece of newly exposed flesh he planted a moist kiss until his head was near Lestrade’s groin.

“Oh, god,” Lestrade moaned as Sherlock pressed the palm of his hand to the bulge in the DI’s trousers.

Sherlock took a moment to watch Lestrade as he continued to slowly rub. His own buzz was quickly dying, but the signs of intoxication were still clear on Lestrade. While it may still hold true that he wanted this, Sherlock didn't want him to regret this in the morning.

“Greg,” Sherlock started. “Are you sure you want this? That you won’t be sorry about this tomorrow?”

Lestrade looked down at Sherlock, a crooked half-smile on his face. “I  _ knew _ you knew my name, you bugger!” He sat up and grabbed Sherlock’s arm, hauling him back down onto the bed. “And yes, I want this. You’re worried that I’m too pissed to know what I'm doing.” He leaned up and kissed Sherlock again. “I’m still buzzed but I know  _ exactly _ what I’m doing.” He rocked his hips until they connected with Sherlock’s and runted their erections together.

Sherlock groaned. “Greg…” He rocked back, relishing in the contact; it had really been too long for him. He felt warm hands on his skin and before he knew it, his dressing gown and shirt were off and he was being pushed onto the bed so his pajama bottoms could be removed too.

“Lift your hips and budge up,” Greg said as he let his own shirt fall to the floor.

Sherlock did as he was asked, not even tiny bit ashamed as his cock sprung free of the material and bounced off his abdomen.

“Christ, you’re gorgeous,” Greg muttered as he undid his own trousers.

“So glad you approve of my cock,” Sherlock replied in faked distain, even as a smile danced on his lips. He wasn't small by any means but he wasn't extremely well-endowed either. His girth was average but he was slighter longer than normal with a significant upward curve.

“Oh, shut it!” Lestrade retorted with a smile as his trousers slipped to the floor followed by his pants.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, even as he admired Lestrade’s slightly short but thick cock. “Red pants?”

The DI shrugged. “Yeah, why not? The rest of me has to be all formal and business-like might as well have fun with my pants.” He smiled and crawled back onto the bed and hovered over Sherlock. “More than just your cock is gorgeous.” 

Sherlock hummed in agreement as Lestrade dipped his head to play with a nipple, lipping at the pebbled flesh and flicking it with his tongue. The detective arched his back, slotting their cocks together and eliciting a moan from both of them at finally have direct skin-on-skin contact.

“Bloody hell,” Greg said as he rested his forehead on Sherlock’s chest. “I’m not going to last long.”

“It’s okay,” Sherlock replied as he continued to rut against Lestrade. “Neither am I.”

A groan was all the DI would manage in response. He leaned up and captured Sherlock’s lips again. “Got any lube?” he asked eventually.

“Top drawer, in the closest corner.”

Lestrade leaned over and opened the drawer, reaching in and finding the bottle. When he looked back, Sherlock had his hand outstretched, palm up. He flicked open the cap, squeezing a dollop onto his own hand before doing the same to Sherlock’s. He tossed the bottle to the side in the vague direction of the drawer as he spread the lube around his hand before slicking up his cock.

Sherlock reached out with his clean hand and pulled the DI back over to him. “If I wanted to do this alone, I would have stalked off to the loo.” He guided Lestrade’s hips until their cocks were once again pressed together; he relished the feeling of the silky hard flesh against his own.

“Fuck, that feels good,” Lestrade whispered as Sherlock gripped both their cocks and began stroking, slow at first in an effort to drag it out somewhat.

Sherlock hummed as he pressed their lips together in a greedy kiss, his hand already beginning to speed up. He felt Greg’s hips pistoning in and out in time with his strokes, trying as best he could to match the rhythm.

“Jesus… fuck… I can’t… for long… fuck…” Lestrade muttered into Sherlock’s lips as his paced picked up and got more erratic.

“‘S fine… can’t… either… bloody hell…” the detective’s hand was now flying wildly over their cocks, his own hips bucking independently. As he felt the warmth blooming deep in his abdomen, he let go what little bit of a hold he still had on reality and let the sensations wash over him.

“Shit… fuck… I’m…” Sherlock’s hips bucked once more into his fist, hard, and he was coming, ribbons of semen painting his and Lestrade’s chest.

The DI looked down to see the detective’s cock twitch next to his as he came and it was the last nudge he needed. “Fuck!” he yelled as he added his own come to the patterns on their chests. 

Sherlock continued to stroke them through the aftershocks, stopping only when Greg shuddered and dropped down beside him, limp and sated.

It was several minutes before either of them could speak.

“That,” Lestrade ventured, “was amazing.”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes.” He ignored how the oxytocin and other endorphins coursing through his veins was making him feel horribly sentimental.

“I hope we can do this again,” Lestrade ventured as he rolled over fully onto his side and draped an arm lazily over Sherlock.

The detective smiled. “Hmm, yes, I think I would like that.” He shuffled onto his side and backed into Greg, pulling the limb tighter around him.

“Ya know, I have the rest of the weekend off,” Lestrade muttered into the skin of Sherlock’s neck.

“Yes. And John doesn’t return home until the following Monday.” He felt the DI smile as he kissed the soft spot behind Sherlock’s ear. “Although, I suppose we also need to have a conversation about this?” He turned his head to catch Greg’s eye.

Lestrade nodded. “Yes, but in the morning.” He snugged in closer to Sherlock, burying his face into the erratic curls. “Too sleepy.”

“And drunk,” Sherlock giggled. 

A mumbled agreement was Greg’s only response.

Sherlock listened as Lestrade’s breathing evened out then slowed, just a hint of snoring creeping in. He felt the vaguely familiar tendrils of sleep working their way through his brain. His last thought was that perhaps he  _ wouldn't _ be as bored as he thought during John’s absence. He smiled again, pulled Greg a little tighter around himself, and drifted off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are always appreciated here or on my [Tumblr](http://yourdykeinshiningarmor.tumblr.com/).


End file.
